


Good for the Soul

by Hannibals_Jorts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Domestic, Friendship, Growing Old Together, M/M, Old Friends, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Quiet, Rain, Soup, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 13:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4436888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibals_Jorts/pseuds/Hannibals_Jorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting on with his life after Hannibal's surrender, Will beats a storm home and settles in for a quiet night of reading with his dogs when he's interrupted by an old friend in need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good for the Soul

Will’s hand hovered.

 _New Organic Recipe!_ one can promised, its label featuring a smiling, kerchiefed old woman holding a basket of bulbous, farm-fresh vegetables. The noblest chicken he’d ever seen perched on her shoulder– in its expression he saw a reconciliation with its soup-bound fate he had only ever seen in the eyes of those with a terminal diagnosis.

 _Classic Recipe_ , the other can stated. No glorious, laser-printed label here; just staid, reliable red and white. Even the picture of hot cooked soup was statement rather than offering.

_3.99 or .99? Which one do I…?_

He blinked and shook his head, his other hand tightening on the grocery cart’s handle. He seized several 99-cent cans of different soups and dumped them in the basket. Both hands settled on the cart’s handle with the unshakable resolve of a man driving a motorcycle into an erupting volcano.

_Crawford’s text this morning. It’s got me all wound up._

The crooked wheels squealed as he moved down the aisle.

“HANNBAL ESCAPD B CARFUL” Jack had texted.

_I’ll bet he was texting one-handed in the car, one eye on traffic and the other on a pile of news bulletins, driving with his knees. It drives Bella crazy knowing he does that. Bella… Thank goodness she responded to her chemo._

Other things went into his cart: restaurant-style nacho chips, crayon-orange cheese in a jar, frozen hamburger patties, microwaveable fish fingers.  _Might as well dump it all in a bucket that says ‘Bachelor Chow.’  He wouldn’t approve, he'd say-_ Will closed his eyes. He added huge sacks of dry dogfood, their reinforced surfaces pebbled by the pellets within.

While loading his groceries into the car, he glanced up. Black clouds mustered overhead. Cold October wind ran its fingers through his hair, tossing the dark curls and chilling his scalp. He turned and manhandled the bags of dogfood into the trunk.

_Don’t think of what they remind you of… they’re like-like sandbags. I’m a man volunteering to sandbag a river for disaster relief; I’m saving a school from a flood. Don’t think of… of the other. They’re sandbags._

 

The storm raged. Thunder and lightning filled the world, coming hard and fast in attempts to drown each other out. Now there was a last, muttered rumble as the argument faded.

Rain drummed on the cottage roof. Wind threw occasional slaps of water against the windows and howled through the porch as if angry to be alone. The dogs lay heaped in front of the space heater, a pile of furs in a viking’s bed.

Will stood in the kitchen, not so much cooking as reheating.

 _Hot tomato soup, some leftover London Broil, hot tea, some toast… I do miss his toast. He made his own bread, and the butter was that frothy, creamy stuff that just–_ He shook his head. _No, no more of that. I'm using butter that comes in a tub and has a picture of a happy cow on the side. I bought it and I'm happy with it._

He scraped butter across the toast, his mouth a grim line. The knife had a plastic handle in the shape of an anthropomorphic jalapeno giving a thumbs-up. Spiteful smears of yellowish-white coated the slice by the time he was done.

As one, the dogs’ heads pointed at the door.

_It’s nothing. They heard something, the wind. Get hold of yourself, it’s not him-_

A knock, soft and confident. It said _This is the polite thing to do, but you know I’m here whether I knock or not._

He stuck the knife in the butter tub and crossed the room.

The door creaked open and he took in the dripping, shivering, disheveled figure outside.

He sighed.

 

_I’ve seen a live man sewn into a dead horse. I’ve seen bodies taken apart and remade into the most beautiful and obscene art. I’ve seen crime scenes by the hundred, but seeing Hannibal coughing and sneezing is just…_

Hannibal’s white dress shirt clung to his skin as if he’d been shrink wrapped. He took his shoes off by the door and stood dripping on the kitchen linoleum as Will fetched him a towel and some clothes.

“Sorry, this is all I have that might fit.” Will handed over a bundle: piled on the folded towel were corduroys, a flannel shirt, and a sweater. They were several sizes too large, a gift from his last elderly relative before she died.

“Thank you. I appreciate this, Will.”

_His hands shook just now, he tried to hide it but I saw it. Is he sick?_

Will lifted his hand, then paused.

Amber eyes regarded him, the pupils dark like trapped insects.

Will felt the high forehead. “You’re burning up. Get changed and sit down, I’ll get you some soup.”

Hannibal toweled his hair, then undid the tiny buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.” The amber eyes shut, the face knotted, and a sneeze shook the house like a hurricane. A startled yelp came from the heap by the space heater.

Will offered him a box of tissue. “Nothing really surprises me anymore. If you showed up as Santa with the Feathered Stag pulling your sleigh, I would have expected it.” He headed for the pantry. “Crawford told me.”

Hannibal peeled the shirt off, the fabric sucking as it went. “Do you want to know how I escaped?”

Will opened a cabinet. “Does it really matter?” His face tightened and he looked over his shoulder. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

Wet pants slid down long thighs. “This time, no.” Another sneeze shook Hannibal. The smallest dog disentangled itself and crossed the room. It sat before the tall figure, ears folding back as it looked up in concern. Hannibal wavered as he bent down to lift the corduroys, steadying himself against the counter.

Will turned away. _I will not do it. I will not help him get dressed._ He frowned into the cabinet. “All I have is canned. Can you even eat that?”

“What kind of guest would I be to complain about my host’s offering? Anything you give me is appreciated.” Redressed, Hannibal shuffled across the floor to an overstuffed chair, huddling inside the warm clothes. He coughed, covering his mouth. Old scars darkened his knuckles. “I’m sorry to come to you like this. I can’t remember the last time I was sick.” He collapsed into the chair, mouth open and eyes closed.

Will considered the can, turning it in his fingers. “You made soup for me, once. And all those other meals, even if they weren’t… what I thought they were.”

Kitchen sounds filled the silence between Hannibal’s sneezes and coughs: a bowl’s hollow ring as it met the counter, cutlery jingling, drawers rolling open and shut. The ding of the microwave and the buzzing can opener were the only discordant notes, as out of place as beer hats at a wine tasting.

Will loaded a tray with the hot soup and a few other things then crossed the room, his socks whispering on the carpet. Several heads in the pile by the space heater raised, casting longing looks at the tray. By now, they knew better than to beg.

Hannibal lay wilted in the chair, fever burning on his cheeks in two pink patches. “Did you call Crawford?”

Balancing the tray with one hand, Will set a TV table in front of Hannibal’s chair. The jalapeno-handled butter knife, wobbled beside the plate. A vein beat at Will’s temple as he leaned over to set down the tray, and another rose across his throat. “Not yet.”

The amber eyes crinkled in a smile. “Thank you, Will. I appreciate that, too.” A slap of rain against the window coincided with a coughing fit. When it was over, Hannibal glanced up at the roof. “The lightning and thunder have passed. Now there’s just the rain.”

Will, having set up his own table and tray, settled into another chair with a creak. “So it would seem.”

Hannibal tilted his head and spread his paper napkin in his lap, his limbs slow with the movements.

 _It’s like seeing a tiger, drugged._ Will’s jaw clenched as he looked back at his soup.

“And for you, Will? Has the storm passed for you?”

Will considered his tray, his hands clasped between his knees. The wind howled through the porch again, and a dog snuffled in its sleep.  
Hazel met amber and Will sat up, reaching for his own napkin. “Yes. I mean, I don’t expect sunshine and rainbows or bright days of light, but… I don’t mind the rain. I’m used to it.” A half-smile raised the corner of his mouth. “At this point I can’t imagine life without it.”


End file.
